I was never the type to scare easily. I live alone, and for the most part, I actually enjoy the quiet. At night, the silence feels like a blanket—safe, calm, comforting.
But a few weeks ago, something started happening that ripped that comfort away.
It started small. A faint sound. A soft knocking at 2 a.m. on the wall right by my bed. At first, I thought maybe it was just the neighbors. Old pipes. Maybe even a branch against the window.
But it wasn’t.
Because the next night, the knocking came again. And this time, it was closer.
I froze in bed, holding my breath. Then I heard it—a whisper. Not words I could understand, just a low, hissing murmur. My heart slammed so hard in my chest I was afraid whoever—whatever—was on the other side could hear it.
I barely slept. The next morning, I told myself I must’ve dreamed it. Lack of sleep. Stress. My brain playing tricks on me. That’s what I wanted to believe.
But then, night after night, the sounds grew bolder. Footsteps in the hallway when I KNEW the door was locked. A faint humming from the living room. The soft creak of the couch, like someone sitting down.
And the whispering never stopped.
By the fourth night, I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed a flashlight, stormed through the house, flung open closets, checked under the bed—nothing. Everything was empty.
Until I reached the attic.
The pull-down ladder was already extended.
I swear on everything—I hadn’t touched it.
I climbed up slowly, flashlight shaking in my hand. My heart was in my throat, my skin ice cold. I reached the top, pointed the light around, and for a second, I thought I saw something crouched in the corner.
But when I blinked, it was gone.
Just old boxes. Dust. Cobwebs.
So I forced a laugh at myself, pulled the ladder back up, and went downstairs.
But here’s the part that still makes my stomach twist every time I think about it.
When I walked back into my bedroom, I noticed my closet door was open. I NEVER leave it open.
Inside, on the top shelf, I saw something that wasn’t mine. A small, battered notebook.
I opened it.
And my blood ran cold.
Page after page… it was filled with descriptions of me sleeping.
“The girl shifted at 2:17. She mumbled something in her dream. At 3:04 she sat up for a moment, then laid back down.”
Every detail. Every night. For WEEKS.
My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the book.
That’s when I heard it.
A voice. Right behind me.
“Did you like my stories?”
